


Therapy Session

by MillieTheFreak



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Humour, M/M, Me being an idiot, Slash, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 18:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillieTheFreak/pseuds/MillieTheFreak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock returns from the dead he and John have some trouble telling each other how they feel. John forces Sherlock to a therapy session with Ella to try and get the truth about what happened 3 years ago. Sherlock reveals more than he intended when Ella uses his own techniques against him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Therapy Session

**Author's Note:**

> This was just a bit of fun that I wrote a while back. Don't take it too seriously.
> 
> My mum is a therapist, and she specialises in substance abuse and domestic violence. What techniques Ella use in this are solely from what I understand from what my mum tells me, rather than because I am a trained therapist myself.
> 
> If you are dealing with bereavement, please find a specialist counsellor to help. Unfortunately, very rarely do loved ones come back from the grave- we aren't all as lucky as John Watson. If you do want to chat, I'm always available for my lovely readers, and we can talk about whatever you like.

Ella surveyed the couple in front of her, and wondered since when she had gone from being a highly qualified trauma and bereavement specialist counsellor to being a couples' therapist.

"John, you arranged this meeting today in the hopes to get some clarification and explanation for what has gone on in your life recently," Ella said in her most patient voice. Personally, she thought the pair of them should just shut up and fuck the angst out of each other.

"Yes," John said confidently. "Sherlock is refusing to talk about this properly, so I was hoping you would provide a middle ground for us."

Sherlock Holmes, the bane of John Watson's life for the last five years, or very possibly his saviour, was slumped in his seat, looking bored. Ella didn't know whether Sherlock was a good or bad presence, but she knew John had been destroyed before he met Sherlock, miraculously mended after he met him, then utterly destroyed again when Sherlock had "died". Ella knew bereavement. She had received a distinction in her thesis on bereavement, focussing on soldiers and bereavement of war. She knew this case inside out. This was her element. So when John had come back to her, his eyes burning in pain, she knew what he needed. Classic grief case. If anything, it was slightly boring.

But then, Sherlock Holmes had risen from the dead! Oh, John Watson's case was no longer boring, not in the slightest! He had had one more session with her, where he had gone from hysterical laughter, to sobbing, to anger and back again. Ella was very close, after John had used her last packet of Kleenex, to just telling him that this was  _normal_ for people who were in love, and he should count himself lucky that Sherlock Holmes had returned to him, when so many wives and husbands had to live alone until they died themselves.

She looked at the man now. Sherlock was inspecting his nails, and John was grinding his teeth together beside him.

"I can't provide anything," she told him truthfully. "You need to come to a conclusion yourself. Have you talked about what has happened?"

Sherlock huffed, and John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Partially," John said, irritably.

"Why don't you start with what actually happened?" Ella said gently. "Sherlock, I'm sure John would feel a lot better if you didn't keep him in the dark. There are probably lots of questions that he needs answering."

Sherlock sighed heavily, giving Ella the most disdainful look she had ever received, and she knew he was only here for John. She would use this against him, and hopefully this therapy session would actually  _get somewhere._

"John," he said in a particularly patronising voice. "Do you have any questions?"

John glared at him. "Yes. Yes I do."

"Well, do share."

"Why?" John asked, and Ella recognised the hurt in his eyes that she had seen on enough occasions. "Why did you do it? Why didn't you tell me? Why did you go without me? Why did you let me think you were  _dead?"_

Sherlock was silent and blank faced for a while, and John waited expectantly for an answer.

"That's more than one question, John. Which do you want me to answer first?"

"Oh, for the love of God!" John cried out, exasperatedly. "Pick one! At this rate, any answer would be nicer than none! I'm not going to be picky!"

Sherlock was blank faced once more. Ella recognised it as a defence mechanism. Sherlock Holmes did not deal in emotions.

"For your protection," he managed after a while.

"Bullshit!"

"I'm not lying. If you had come with me, you would have died," Sherlock said mutely.

John frowned. "I don't believe you. We've done countless dangerous things in our lives. I never saw you hesitate to pull me into it."

Sherlock sighed in frustration. "You don't understand. I don't see why I should explain it to you."

Ella decided to intervene before John punched someone.

"Maybe you would find some peace if you shared what is troubling you with John?" she suggested, and was surprised that she didn't crumble under the glare he gave her.

"Tell me why you felt the need to do this alone?" John asked, and his tone was gentler.

Sherlock didn't respond, just stared ahead with a stony expression.

"I know you find it hard to talk about...feelings," John continued. "I just need some answers. You certainly weren't willing to talk about it at home."

More silence. Ella spoke again.

"What was your reunion like?"

The reaction was immediate. Sherlock fidgeted in his seat and sat up a little straighter. John cleared his throat and averted his gaze.

"He was, um, disguised," John muttered.

"Disguised?" Ella prompted.

"As the plumber. I had a leaky pipe under the sink. He came in, I didn't recognise him. He went under the sink. I went to brew some tea. He came out from the sink, and...and...it was him," John said quietly.

"Then what?" Ella asked.

"He passed out," Sherlock supplied.

Ella noticed immediately how much more forthcoming both of them where when they were talking about facts, rather than emotions. She'd need to beat that out of them at some point in the next hour.

"I did not  _pass out,"_ John muttered indignantly.

"You fainted, John," Sherlock said in a  _you-can't-fool-me_ voice.

"Well excuse me, for being ever so slightly shocked when my  _dead_ best friend comes back to life!" John snapped angrily, and Ella saw Sherlock's hand closest to John twitch, as though he wanted to reach out for John.

"What did you feel, when you saw him?" Ella asked.

John looked at her blankly.

"What was your immediate emotion?" she expanded.

"Shock," he said, which was understandable. "Confusion. Anger. Relief."

"She said  _immediate_ reaction, John," Sherlock interrupted, but Ella waved this away.

"No, no. Go on. This is good," she said, and gestured for John to continue. "Relief?"

"Yes. Relief. Happiness. Anger."

"You've already said anger, John."

"Well, I was fucking angry, alright?"

Ella watched on, and saw Sherlock slump more in his seat.

"Happiness?" she asked, and John reddened slightly.

"Yes, happiness," he repeated.

"How happy were you?" she asked.

He looked at her as if she were mad.

"Really, really happy?" he asked, as though it were a trick question.

"Don't ask me, tell me," she instructed, and he rolled his eyes.

"Really happy," he said, more confidently. A small smile played at his lips. "I was really happy."

"Why?" she shot at him, as soon as he seemed pleased with having come to that conclusion. He looked startled at her question.

"Why? What do you mean,  _why?"_ he snapped.

"Why were you happy to see him?"

John choked on his words a little, and threw a glance at Sherlock, who was staring resolutely out of the window.

"B-because...Because I...I..." he stuttered.

Ella raised her eyebrows, waiting for a response.

"Because I love him," John managed. "And, I missed him. S-so much."

Sherlock turned his head around, to look directly at John. His face was seemingly blank, but Ella could read in his eyes that Sherlock himself was rather surprised by this revelation.

"Okay, we're getting somewhere," she said. "Sherlock, what do you feel, right now?"

"What?" he asked her, and it was a more difficult question for him to answer than John had had to answer. She liked testing him, she liked seeing his limits. He was the genius, he would have to prove it.

"Right now?" she repeated. "How do you feel?"

"I don't feel," he said haughtily.

"I disagree," she said. "You're a man of evidence. The evidence is right in front of me. How do you feel?"

He opened his mouth and stuttered for a while, before glancing at John. John had a rather smug look on his face, as he watched his impenetrable friend falter.

"In counselling, we have a saying," she continued, after it was evident that he couldn't answer. "It's a little amateurish, but you might find it useful. Do you feel mad, sad, bad or glad?"

"What?" he spluttered.

"Mad? Sad? Bad? Or glad?" she said slowly.

"I am not feeling mad," he said, and rolled his eyes, as if this was all a waste of time.

"Sad?" she asked.

He hesitated. "M-maybe a little."

She refrained from showing any sign of triumph at having cracked the armour even slightly. Aha! She was getting somewhere.

"Why do you feel sad?" she asked. "Did you miss John, too?"

"Yes, of course," he said, and he was much quieter now. He spared another glance at John, then bowed his head. "Every day."

John took a deep breath, and then reached over to pull Sherlock into a hug. It was very awkward, as both were sitting in chairs side by side, but Sherlock grasped John's elbow, and let John hold him for a moment. "I missed you too," John told him, and Ella thought for just a moment that this scene was more heart-warming than any rom-com trash.

"It is understandable for you to feel sadness," she told him, hoping not to cause any awkwardness which might hinder their progress. "You and John have a very close relationship. When you have relationships like that, it can also be a weakness, as you're open to pain and loss."

Sherlock seemed to latch onto her words and paid her a bit more attention.

"Do you feel bad?" she pressed, continuing.

"Bad?" he asked.

"You can take that to mean any form of  _bad_ you like," she explained.

"I- I...I don't feel bad. I feel...I feel bad for...for..." he really found it difficult expressing himself in words. "I can't... I..."

"How empathetic are you, Sherlock?" Ella asked.

He seemed a little put off by the change in topic, but she knew where it was leading to.

"Not very," he challenged defiantly, lifting his chin.

"You have a brother?" she asked, and he nodded. "Did you feel any empathy, knowing the pain you would cause him by pretending to kill yourself?"

He winced ever so slightly at her choice of words, but Ella wasn't about to pansy around Sherlock Holmes with delicate language.

"Not really," he said obstinately. "I don't like him."

"Mrs Hudson? You're close to your landlady. Did you feel bad for causing her pain?"

Sherlock frowned, and remained silent.

"What about John? Surely, being a genius, you'd know exactly what would happen to John. You're a smart man. You met him just after he'd returned from war. You knew his mental state better than  _I_ did. You are the one who knows him best. Tell me, did you know, did you  _understand_ exactly what would happen to John, when he was to believe you had _committed suicide?"_

Sherlock twitched and his forehead furrowed under her harsh words. "Yes. Yes! Okay. God, woman! I felt terrible. But it had, to be done, didn't it."

"Terrible?" asked John. "Is that synonymous with 'bad'?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, I suppose so. So, I feel bad and sad. What else do you want to extricate from me?"

"Do you feel glad?" she asked gently.

Sherlock was having an internal battle with himself.

"Just tell me. Tell me everything you feel glad about, right this instant," she pressed.

"I'm glad to be home," he said, and rubbed his face with his hands. "I'm glad to be in London. I'm glad I finished my mission."

"What was your mission?" she asked.

"James Moriarty was dead. I needed to destroy his empire, eradicate all evidence of his crime syndicate from the planet," Sherlock said gravely, and Ella didn't know if he honestly believed his own bullshit, or was hyping it up for dramatic effect. Either way, Sherlock Holmes was one arrogant man.

"Was it dangerous?" she asked.

"Very. I had to do it alone," he said.

"Why?" she asked.

"I don't like your constant questioning," he snapped.

"I doubt your suspects like  _your_ constant questioning, but at the end of the day, we're both after one thing. An answer," she said, knowing how her words would irritate the crap out of him.

"Oh, Ella Thompson, we have no common goal," he said spitefully, and she knew he was regretting revealing so much of his self to her already. "Your hair is greasy, your clothes are one size too small. You have bags under your eyes-"

"Sherlock," John tried to intervene.

"You didn't have time to put on any makeup. So, obviously, late night. Spent doing what? Not a lover, certainly. Something you're ashamed of, which is why you lost sleep. Judging by the contents of your lunch in your bag, sweets and chocolate and comfort food, a break up. A nasty break up, too. Old relationship? Undoubtedly, you've got gifts from him, such as the necklace around your neck. Not your style, because it is nothing like the decor you've used to furnish this office. So, you still love him, but he's just not putting the effort into your relationship," he said, his voice growing more nasty and theatrical with every word. Ella tried not to smirk. He had fallen into her trap.

"Sherlock!" John tried again.

"Clothes, again, sign that you've been gaining weight, which might be the reason behind your break up- he just doesn't find you attractive any more. Hair? Easy, you've lost all will to try to look good anymore. Why bother, when the love of your life doesn't care?" he said, a malicious glint in his eyes.

Ella was calm. "Sherlock, have you ever heard of Freud?"

Sherlock blinked. "Yes."

"All right. I'm going to tell you some things, and you tell me if I'm right. Then, I'll tell you if  _you_  were right or not."

"I don't need you to tell me if I'm right. I know I'm right."

"Well, then," she said, and couldn't help wanting to take this arrogant man down a peg. "I'll tell you that you're completely wrong."

"Of course I am," he said sarcastically.

"You based your deduction on my supposed  _'nasty break-up'?"_ Ella began. "I equate this to yours and John's separation."

"That's preposterous!" Sherlock cried out.

"No, it's not. Then, there's  _your_ appearance. You said something about my hair and my weight. I can tell that you yourself have recently had a haircut," she continued.

"Yes, I insisted," John supplied. "It was at his shoulders. He looked ridiculous."

"Ah. So you're self-conscious around John?" Ella asked, and Sherlock said nothing. "I can tell you've also started eating better, too. Knowing John, it's probably because he's a doctor and wants to look after you properly. But you're worried about gaining too much weight. As I said, self-consciousness, probably mixed in with vanity. Do you think John will judge you if you're fat?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest.

"You've taken up some sort of exercise. I imagine hiding in the underground for three years hasn't been good for your health. What have you started? Jogging? Lifting weights?"

"Swimming," John piped up again. "He opened a membership at the local pool."

"John!" Sherlock said indignantly. Ella found a sort of sick pleasure in turning the man's tricks onto himself.

"Okay, swimming. So, hair, weight, those are clearly things you worry about. You want to be attractive. That's fine, every human being wants to be attractive. What did you next say? Oh yes, the necklace. Actually, it's a gift from my mum, Sherlock, not an ex-boyfriend. I'm meeting her after lunch. You're right, it's really ugly, and I can't stand it, but I'm wearing it to make her happy. Probably the same reason you're wearing that jumper." Ella pointed at Sherlock, and had to physically stop herself from smirking and Sherlock exhaled in defeat, and slumped back into his chair.

Sherlock was wearing a dark blue jumper over a black shirt. It looked cashmere from what Ella could tell, and was certainly not just from M&S. Even if it was expensive, it was  _not_ Sherlock's taste. He was wearing a twenty grand watch, for Christ's sake, and a Spencer Hart suit! Never, ever, would Sherlock Holmes wear knitwear.

John Watson, on the other hand, was a walking jumper vending machine. He definitely would wear knitwear. In fact, Ella had never seen him without a thick jumper.

"Which Christmas?" she asked, and Sherlock glared at her.

"Three years ago," Sherlock muttered angrily. "Our only Christmas together."

"Why are you wearing it?"

"Because it's cold?" he said belligerently.

Ella looked to John, who had an expression which showed great surprise and some sort of joy. "Did you buy him that jumper?"

"Yes, I did," he said, with a smile. It was the first smile Ella had seen from him in years.

"Has he ever worn it before?"

"No. I just thought that every wardrobe should have a nice jumper in it. His wardrobe is full of silk shirts and bespoke suits. What do you get the man who has everything? A nice jumper," he said, somewhat dreamily, as if he were lost in the time when his biggest problem was what to get Sherlock Holmes for Christmas.

"Would you agree, Sherlock, that in your little speech, my necklace equated to your jumper?" she asked.

"No," he grumbled, but she ignored him.

"What were your exact words?" she said, relishing the moment. "' _Not your style, because it is nothing like the decor you've used to furnish this office_.' Are you not, Sherlock, wearing a jumper that you would otherwise not be seen dead in?"

He managed a curt not.

"You then went on to say,  _'So you still love him, but he's just not putting the effort into your relationship'."_ She finished, trying not to be too gleeful.

"In your analysis of  _me,_ I'm pining over my boyfriend. In my analysis of  _you,_ you're pining over John Watson. Am I right, Sherlock?" she asked, gently.

Sherlock stood up abruptly. "I think I'm done."

"Sherlock," Ella said calmly. "I'm here to help John. By leaving, you're not allowing me to do that."

He did not sit down, but glared at her.

"I'd like to point out another thing you said," she continued. "' _He just doesn't find you attractive anymore.'_ I've already said that you want to be attractive. Everyone wants to be attractive. Can you tell me if you were just projecting what  _you_ think John feels? Do you think John doesn't like you, because of what you did?"

"Very well done," he said quietly, bitterly. "Very eloquently done. I commend your ability to set up a verbal trap. You should have been a lawyer."

"I prefer dealing with honest people, Sherlock," she said truthfully.

"Sherlock?" John whispered, and reached out a hand to touch Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock jumped in surprise, and John retracted his hand.

"John, I'm going to ask you the same question I asked Sherlock earlier," Ella said, turning her attention to her client. "How do you feel, right now?"

"Me?" John asked. His eyes were wide, and he drew his gaze away from Sherlock's stiff figure to Ella.

"How about, instead of telling me, you tell Sherlock?" she suggested.

John seemed to fail with forming a coherent sentence, too flabbergasted by the facts that had just come to light. Instead, after several tense moments, he stood up also. Ella watched as he took a step towards Sherlock, and then pulled him around to face him. Sherlock looked determinedly over John's shoulder, hunched up and reclusive.

"I do love you," John told him, lifting a hand to rest against Sherlock's cheek. "I broke when you died."

Ella wasn't an idiot. She knew  _exactly_ what was about to happen. She stood, but neither man paid her any attention. She sidled out of the office, but couldn't resist peeking around the door.

Sherlock was gazing directly into John's eyes. "I cried, standing up on that roof. I was crying."

"I know," John nodded. "I was there."

"I didn't want to leave you," Sherlock whispered.

"I didn't want you to leave," John replied, bringing his other hand to Sherlock's face and cradling his head.

"I didn't want to lie to you. I wanted to stay with you," Sherlock mumbled, and Ella strained to hear. Sherlock had brought a hand up to John's face, and tilted his chin up. "I love you."

John leaned up on tiptoes, and they kissed. Ella knew she should really leave, and give them some privacy, but it was too sweet.

John's hands were disappearing in Sherlock's curly hair, pulling him down, whilst Sherlock's hands were grasping John's shoulder and waist. Hands and lips weren't enough, though, because soon tongues and teeth were introduced, and Ella was witnessing something the gals back on tumblr would really really appreciate to see.

John was pulling Sherlock downwards, devouring lips and trying to get Sherlock at a comfortable height for his neck, whilst Sherlock was allowing his mouth to be plundered and pushing his hands under John's jumper, wrapping long arms around a body and physically lifting him up, until John's toes were brushing the floor.

Ella wished that the sort of love she was watching actually existed in real life, and not for lucky bastards like Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson.

Because they really were, the most sickening, lucky bastards, and she hoped now, at least, John would be at peace. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it! Please tell me what you think!


End file.
